


Two-Step

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: M/M, not actually a dancing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: “You done much dancing, Bible?”“I’ve done my share,” Boyd said, electing to ignore the unwelcome nickname in the same way that he was ignoring the soft heat that had started pooling under the collar of his uniform, “at church events and the like. Cookouts, barn-raisings, baptisms. That sorta thing.”Don shook his head, slow. He was still smiling but it was a smaller, tighter thing, with an edge to it that made the hair on the back of Boyd’s neck prickle and rise. “I mean the kind of dancing you think I’m talking about,” he explained. “In the dark. Close and slow.”
Relationships: Don "Wardaddy" Collier/Boyd "Bible" Swan
Comments: 22
Kudos: 63
Collections: Spicy Advent - Multi-fandom Porn Advent Calendar 2019





	Two-Step

**Author's Note:**

> First off, huge huge thank you to **Navaan** for putting this whole shebang together. I know I missed my deadline but it was stupid fun anyway.
> 
> The whole point of this is basically porn, so, don't expect a whole lot of plot is all I'm saying. Written for the prompt:
> 
> "When I say dancing"
> 
> Thank you to **Muccamukk** for giving it a critical eye and assuring me that it was porny enough to share~ 

“So that’s it then?” Don asked. He was standing in the center of the cramped room they’d been assigned at the Red Cross billet in London, with his hands fisted against his hips, peering down at Boyd expectantly. Boyd—who had kicked his boots off, tossed his jacket over the footboard of one of the narrow bed-frames, and sprawled out immediately while Don primped in the mirror over the small washstand in the corner—flipped another page in his Bible and didn’t bother looking up.

“That’s it,” he agreed.

“You’re not going?”

“I am not,” Boyd confirmed with a little nod, still pointedly focusing his attentions on the passage in front of him. He could feel Don staring at him but he refused to give the other man the satisfaction of noticeably distracting him from his reading.

“That book of yours got something against dancing?” Don asked. He wandered in close enough to try and hook a finger over the top of the Bible and pull it back so he could get a look at the page. 

Boyd jerked it out of the way and finally succumbed to his irritation, glaring up at Don and saying, “Not as such. Got a fair bit to say on the subjects of drunkenness and whoring, though.”

“Well, now, Bible,” Don said, arching an eyebrow as his mouth curved into a triumphant smirk, “seeing as I don’t recall my invitation making explicit mention of either, it seems you’re free to join me for a night on the town without risking the integrity of your immortal soul.”

“Please,” Boyd huffed, rolling onto his back and settling down against the flat pillow and the threadbare blanket. He crossed his legs at the ankle and opened his Bible back up. “I know what you boys mean when you say ‘dancing.’”

“Do you?” Don asked, grin unfurling just enough to show a flash of teeth.

“Mmhm.” Boyd ducked his chin in a short, sharp nod, licked his finger, and thumbed his way back to Luke, where Don had so rudely interrupted him. “Been riding around the world in a sardine can with you heathens for going on two years now. I oughta know.”

“You oughta know,” Don parrotted, in a funny tone that sounded altogether too amused to be agreement, though Boyd couldn’t quite name it for anything else.

“I oughta know,” Boyd said again. “I _do_ know, as it so happens, and I _also_ know that I don’t want no part of it.”

“Of dancing?”

“Not the way you mean,” Boyd agreed soberly, and reapplied himself to taking in the Lord’s wisdom while Don continued to hover at his shoulder.

There was blessed silence for a few long heartbeats, broken only by the faint ticking of the little alarm clock perched alongside the lamp on the side table between the beds. Boyd thought that he might have successfully put Don off his foolishness, but a short second later Don nudged his knee against the edge of the mattress and asked, “How do I mean it?”

Boyd let his Bible fall forward, pages splayed face-down across his chest, and stared incredulously up at Don.

“When I say dancing,” Don insisted, head cocked with those steely blue eyes narrowed in thought, “how do I mean it?”

“Uh-uh.” Boyd shook his head and picked his book back up again. “No. I ain’t playing this game with you, top.”

“Bible,” Don drawled, and rolled his eyes when Boyd barked, “Ain’t my name.”

“Boyd,” Don corrected flatly, “how do you think I mean it?”

“You know how.” 

“Indulge me with an explanation.”

Boyd sighed through his nose and laid his book down again. He waved a hand vaguely in the air and let it flop against the spine of the volume splayed open across his sternum. “You know,” he said. “Swaying all slow and close in the dark so you can sweet talk your way into some local girl’s sheets. Or,” he added, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side and back up again, “failing that, so you can buy your way in with booze, though you don’t seem to come by as much trouble with them pretty little Limeys as the other fellas do.”

“That’s it?” Don asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He did not look particularly impressed by Boyd’s proclamation. “That’s what you think I mean by ‘dancing?’”

“So far as I can figure,” Boyd replied with a shallow shrug. Don considered him for a long moment with that same curious half-squint; long enough that Boyd had to fight not to squirm under the weight of his scrutiny. When Don spoke again, it was quieter than Boyd expected—not quite a whisper, but low enough that Don’s voice rasped a little.

“You done much dancing, Bible?”

“I’ve done my share,” Boyd said, electing to ignore the unwelcome nickname in the same way that he was ignoring the soft heat that had started pooling under the collar of his uniform, “at church events and the like. Cookouts, barn-raisings, baptisms. That sorta thing.”

Don shook his head, slow. He was still smiling but it was a smaller, tighter thing, with an edge to it that made the hair on the back of Boyd’s neck prickle and rise. “I mean the kind of dancing you think I’m talking about,” he explained. “In the dark. Close and slow.”

Boyd swallowed, nerves fluttering to attention in the pit of his belly. His mouth felt very dry.

“Once or twice,” he said, and then grimaced as he amended, “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Don echoed. One corner of his mouth quirked up and he huffed a laugh through his nose. “Kind of dancing you’re talking about, you’d _know_ if you’d done it.”

Boyd licked his lips. “Guess I ain’t, then.”

“So, if you’ve never done it,” Don reasoned, “how do you know you don’t like it?” He still had Boyd stuck through with that dark ocean gaze, pinned for display like a butterfly in a specimen box. Boyd licked his lips again. The air between them was warm and close.

“Never said I didn’t like it,” he replied, as casually as he could manage. One of Don’s eyebrows arched up toward his hair, darker gold than usual where it was slicked neatly back with pomade and parted to the side per Army regulations. Boyd shifted against the mattress, suddenly aware of how stiff and lumpy it felt underneath him. “Just that I wasn’t going.”

“Alright,” Don acknowledged, dipping his head in a nod. “So, then, what you’re saying is that it’s the boozing and carousing that’s got you all cussed?”

“Only thing got me cussed is you riding me about it,” Boyd said. “I don’t wanna go, Don. That’s all there is.” He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and made to open his Bible back up again, warning, “Let it rest now.”

Don sucked his teeth and shook his head, reaching down to catch Boyd’s left wrist in his hand and give it a sharp tug. “No,” he said while Boyd hissed at the sudden jerk in his arm and the awkward dig of the good book against his ribs. “No, I’m sorry, Bible, but I just can’t let this stand.”

“What the honest hell is wrong with you?” Boyd demanded, leaning up onto his elbows and glaring at Don as his Bible fell unceremoniously to the floor.

“Nothing a little two-step won’t fix,” Don replied with a smirk. Boyd nearly reached up to sock him. It wouldn’t be the first time he and Don had gotten into it together, though they hadn’t _really_ scrapped in going on a dog’s age, and never in a place this civilized or under circumstances so benign. “C’mon, Bible, don’t be difficult. Get on up.”

“Like hell I will.” Boyd jerked back as best as he could, considering that there was all of six inches between his shoulder and the nearest wall. He caught his free elbow hard against the plaster in his haste to get away and yelped, “Damn it, Don! Let go!”

“Get up!” Don hollered back gleefully, grin sharp and eyes bright. He bit his lip, gave Boyd’s wrist a squeeze, and said, at a more reasonable volume, “Get up and I’ll give you your arm back, how about that?”

“Ain’t yours to barter with in the first place!” Boyd said, but he pushed himself furiously to his feet, wool socks sliding a little on the polished wood floor when he stepped too hard. Don caught him steady by the elbow and Boyd tried to pull out of his grip again, to no avail.

“Wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” Don crooned triumphantly, swinging one arm down to curl loosely around Boyd’s waist while he kept the other cupped just above Boyd’s elbow.

“What exactly are you aiming to accomplish here?” Boyd asked, standing awkwardly in Don’s grip. His stomach felt light and faintly shivery like it sometimes got before he was about to be sick. It would serve Don right, he considered, to be rewarded for this spate of childishness by way of Boyd retching all over his freshly polished boots.

“I’m aiming to learn you a thing or two,” Don explained. “Can’t have my gunner stomping his way around Europe with two left feet. You’re liable to get drummed out for exhibiting such a lack of decorum, the wrong officer catches you at it.”

“Decorum,” Boyd echoed with no small amount of hot-blooded incredulity. “Where was all this fuss about decorum when the captain nearly retracted that promotion ‘cause you couldn’t get your damn chevrons sewn on before reveille, Sergeant?”

“Exactly,” Don agreed with a nod, deliberately misinterpreting the point Boyd had been trying to make and stepping in so close that the buttons on his jacket nearly caught on Boyd’s suspenders. “You helped me out then—stitched me up all nice and pretty, and Grady and Gordo, too—so I’m helping you out now.”

“Unbelievable,” Boyd said.

He longed to roll his sleeves up. London had been characteristically grey when they arrived, the air cool and crisp. It had seemed that the same climate had followed them into their billet, but right now Boyd would swear the room was as hot as it ever got in Fury’s turret. He could feel the heat gathering at his temples, spilling all down his throat, pooling at the small of his back, and Don’s proximity certainly wasn’t helping.

“Figure a turn or two about the room oughta do it,” Don said, and one of the sparks fizzing underneath Boyd’s skin caught and burst.

“I’ll give you a turn,” he muttered nonsensically, lurching forward in a weak, off-kilter tackle.

The trouble was that even when Boyd wanted to lay into Don, he didn’t _really_ want to lay into him. He would, after awhile, because Don didn’t believe in pulling punches even with his friends and Boyd was possessed of at least some small sense of self-preservation, though he didn’t have a taste for blood the same way some of the other men did. Neither would he flatter himself to think that he could ever beat Don in an out-and-out brawl, though it wasn’t likely to matter this time anyway, considering how Don hit the bed on the opposite side of the room and collapsed back onto it, laughing.

Boyd came down on top of him hard enough to knock the wind out of him, though he didn’t hold the advantage for long. Don wheezed a chuckle and hooked Boyd’s ankles with his own and had him pinned on his back against the mattress in short order. They were barking all manner of pointlessly vitriolic nonsense at one another as Boyd struggled to buck Don off without much success and probably could have carried on that way quite happily for another hour or two had the occupant of the neighboring room not banged a fist against the plaster and admonished them in a thick East Coast accent to keep it the hell down, wouldja?

Don let his forehead drop to Boyd’s collarbone, stifling his good humor in the wool of Boyd’s blouse while Boyd glowered at the ceiling, his whole body gone stiff with mortification.

“I’m glad you find this all so amusing,” he hissed in a pointed whisper.

“Don’t get sore now, Bible,” Don said, turning his face just enough to speak. He could probably feel Boyd’s heart pounding under his cheek. The thought only made Boyd’s pulse race faster. “You brought this on yourself.”

“You’re the asshole figures himself for Fred Astaire!”

Don shifted so that his chin was resting against Boyd’s shoulder and grinned, “If I’m Fred, that must make you Ginger.”

Boyd moved to cuff him upside the head but Don had both his wrists neatly pinned and seemed altogether unconcerned by the way Boyd twisted and flailed beneath him in his efforts to get free. Boyd put up enough of a struggle that by the end of it he was fairly well winded, panting into Don’s hair and flexing against the pressure of Don’s fingers against his skin, just this side of too tight. That tremor in his belly had grown to a steady, tidal roll, coursing through him in warm waves. Boyd recognized the sensation now, though it was one he hadn’t experienced in some time and didn’t especially appreciate the resurgence of, considering his current circumstances. 

“Let me up,” Boyd tried, tugging fruitlessly against Don’s grip once more.The solid spread of Don’s bulk above him certainly wasn’t helping matters. If Don didn’t get a move on, Boyd was about to embarrass himself in a manner he wasn’t entirely convinced he would ever recover from.

“Only if you’ll do me the honor of a clearing a slot on your dance card,” Don teased. His grin was sharp and confident and absolutely maddening.

“I ain’t playing games with you, top,” Boyd insisted, voice pulled tight over the edge of desperation. “Get off!”

“Tell you what, I - ” Don started. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then shifted, then stilled. He blinked down at Boyd with his eyebrows high, mouth dropped open around a forgotten word, while every red inch of Boyd’s face flushed hotter than hellfire.

“Well,” Don drawled, slow and smug, rocking forward just a little. Boyd squeezed his eyes shut and made a noise in the back of his throat like a kitten hitting the frigid surface of a swift-moving river. “Now, ain’t that a treat?”

“Don - ” Boyd said, without opening his eyes. The protest died in his throat when Don rolled his hips again, surer and sweeter.

“Shoulda just told me you preferred your partners horizontal, Bible,” he said, voice so thick with self-assurance that Boyd could nearly taste it on the air. “Saved us both some time.” 

He ran a hand down Boyd’s side to curl over his hip, summoning a shiver all along Boyd’s flank as he went. Boyd clenched his teeth around a whimper, so tight he thought the tendons in his jaw might snap. When he opened his eyes again it was to discover Don staring down at him, lower lip tucked under a white sliver of teeth and gaze blown storm-dark. While Boyd watched him, Don licked his lips, blinked long and slow, and asked, “Done this, much?”

There was a tight knot at the top of Boyd’s throat, and when he tried to swallow it down his eyes stung with the effort. He thought about lying, for a second, but he had made his peace with God on the matter some years before and needless dishonesty just to spare himself the risk of courting Don’s disapproval would surely be the greater sin.

He took a shaky breath and managed, “Some.”

Don made a soft humming noise and swept his thumb over the blade of Boyd’s hip. The sensation was muted by the wool of Boyd’s blouse where it was still tucked into his trousers, but it stoked the want in Boyd’s belly all the same.

“And are you of a mind to do it a little more?”

“Thought you wanted to go dancing,” Boyd said without thinking. He sucked a shallow breath through his nose when Don gave his side a warning squeeze.

“Rather stay in and dance, if the offer’s on the table.” He squeezed again, then dragged his hand down so he could tuck his thumb into the seam of Boyd’s thigh, treacherously near where Boyd was tenting his trousers. “Or on the bed, or the floor. Up to you.”

He cupped his hand over Boyd’s erection without ceremony, eyes trained on Boyd’s face, and pressed the heel of his palm down. Boyd moaned and rocked up into it before he could help himself. He ought to say no. Sleeping with men—even as irregularly as Boyd allowed himself the indiscretion—was courting danger enough for a soldier. Engaging in that same folly with his superior officer, the man he trusted to lead him to battle, couldn’t be a good idea.

Even knowing this, Boyd let his head fall back so he didn’t have to meet Don’s gaze and breathed, “Bed’ll do.”

He could feel the weight of Don’s satisfaction as he tugged at the waistband of Boyd’s trousers, instructing, “Get these off.”

Don’s weight shifted and then lifted, the mattress creaking under his knees as he climbed to his feet. There was a cascade of distant shuffling sounds as he started to disrobe. Boyd didn’t watch, just sat up far enough to clumsily shrug his suspenders off and then reached for his belt buckle with shaking fingers. He wasn’t sure how, exactly, Don managed to shuck the entirety of his uniform by the time Boyd was wrestling his undershirt off over his head, but when his face popped free of the sweat-damp cotton Don was standing beside the mattress looking entirely at ease with his state of undress.

Boyd supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise. Don was all broad shoulders and tapered waist, skin puckered and discolored here and there by scars he had earned over the years, though he cut a handsomely sculpted figure all the same. Boyd didn’t quite dare look any lower than Don’s navel just yet. He laid back again, licked his dry lips, and cleared his throat, attention firmly focused on Don’s face.

“You waitin’ on an invitation?”

Don smirked and shook his head, standing there poised with one hand on his hip as his eyes roved the length of Boyd’s body. He reached down to drape his other hand casually over Boyd’s ankle, following the curve of his leg up until his fingers rested just above Boyd’s knee. He gave another little squeeze and Boyd’s cock twitched against his belly. He was already so hard, just from Don lying over top of him, from Don looking down at him now like the first hearty meal he’d seen in months.

“What do you like?” Don asked, and nudged Boyd’s legs over so he could climb back onto the bed and get a knee on either side of him.

“Lotta things,” Boyd shrugged. It was true, though he wasn’t particularly proud of it. “Don’t really have much by way of preferences.”

“You sure you’ve done this before?” Don narrowed his eyes, and Boyd cut him a look so blisteringly unimpressed that it made him huff a laugh and duck his head, chagrined. “Alright.” He sighed, and gave Boyd’s thigh a quick, affectionate rub. “Well, then, how about I try something and you give a holler if it’s not to your taste?”

“That’d be fine,” Boyd nodded, and twisted his fingers in the threadbare sheets. He was hot all over—like those long, gritty days they’d all spent baking half to death under the punishing Moroccan sun—and only getting hotter still in every place Don’s skin touched his own.

Don brushed his knuckles over Boyd’s hip, and Boyd did his best not to try and guess what kind of debauchery Don had in mind. He had never had a problem following Don into the unknown before, and it would be damn well foolish to start now, of all times. He took a slow, careful breath and blinked in surprise when Don shuffled his way a little further down the bed.

“Try not to move too much,” Don said, apropos of nothing. 

“What - ” Boyd started, only to lose the question in a low, desperate moan when Don got a hand around the base of his cock and took the head into his mouth.

Usually when a fellow said he wanted to try something, what he wanted to try was chasing his pleasure down Boyd’s throat, or sometimes in the clutch of his body. Rarely did it happen the other way around, and Boyd’s thighs quivered at the unexpected loveliness of it—Don’s shoulders shifting and bunching, the lean arc of his back as he bowed his head. He was making these soft, wet noises as he worked more and more of Boyd into his mouth and the chorus of them on the air hooked sharp under Boyd’s ribs and pulled. Don kept going until his lips met his knuckles and every inch of Boyd’s prick was surrounded in the familiar heat of him.

Boyd whimpered Don’s name and did his best not to thrust up into the slick give of his mouth, mindful of his earlier instructions. His chest was a vice, every breath shallow and hard-fought. He tried not to make a habit of indulging idle fancy, but the few times he had imagined this he had always envisioned it differently. He had expected that Don would be furtive, at the very least, if not fully mired in the shame and denial that shackled so many men of similar proclivities. Don sucking him so expertly that Boyd wanted to cry out his name in the middle of a muggy London billet without a care as to who might overhear had never really featured.

“Ain’t gonna take long,” Boyd warned thinly, reaching down to get the fingers of one hand into Don’s hair—which was softer than he had guessed it might be—and curling the other into a fist so he could shove his knuckles between his teeth.

Don hummed his acknowledgement and the gentle vibration ricocheted up Boyd’s spine in a riot of pleasure. He moaned into his hand and rocked his hips, chasing Don’s mouth as he pulled off. 

“Still,” Don reminded him, dropping a sharp swat to Boyd’s thigh with his free hand. 

He tongued at the underside of Boyd’s cock for a long minute, maybe as a test of Boyd’s willpower or maybe just because he was enjoying himself, and then swallowed him down again. Don bobbed his head a few times, following the slick glide with his fist, every callus catching in a way that made all the muscles in Boyd’s belly jump. He choked on a moan each time Don’s grip twisted or tightened. He could feel the sweat rolling off his temples, his entire body shaking like someone had struck a live wire under his skin up against an exposed nerve.

Don worked him at a steady pace, hand and mouth in tandem, while Boyd did his very best not to fall to pieces too embarrassingly fast. He held it together—by a generous definition thereof—until Don saw fit to lick at his balls. Boyd was already so wet from Don’s attentions that he could feel it trickling down between his thighs, but Don seemed of a pointed intent to get him sloppier still. He dropped slow, stinging kisses over the tender skin and pushed the thumb of his free hand into the sensitive spot behind them hard enough that Boyd collapsed back against the mattress and fisted his hands in his own hair with a whine so sharp it cut itself in half.

Don turned his head and murmured something into the meat of Boyd’s thigh—he was too far away, awash in too much pleasure to be able to make it out, but the tone was low and sweet. Don didn’t seem to mind that all he got back in return was a desperate little gasp. He took the head of Boyd’s dick back into his mouth, tonguing along the flared ridge and twisting his grip around the base with one hand while he kept up the pressure behind Boyd’s balls with the other. Boyd was vaguely aware that he was moaning—not too loud, he didn’t think, but a rolling, dipping warble that seeped thick into the sticky air and hung there like ribbons of molasses.

“Don,” he breathed, a pit of white heat tightening sharp and sudden in his gut. “Don, I - ” 

He couldn’t manage much more than that, but he didn’t need to. Don pulled off just as Boyd’s orgasm roared through him. He caught a little of it on his chin and sat up to milk the rest with sure, steady strokes of his hand, flashing that canary-fed grin of his down at Boyd while he shuddered and gasped and streaked his own belly with spend.

Don worked Boyd’s cock, slow and sweet, until it started to go soft again, and Boyd hissed and reached down to clumsily bat his hand away. He was still gasping at the ceiling, body wracked with intermittent tremors, when Don dragged his fingers through the cooling puddle on his abdomen.

“Top?” Boyd asked hazily, pushing up onto his elbows.

“You’re alright,” Don said. His voice was a low, hoarse rumble that made Boyd’s stomach drop out. Don shifted over so that he was kneeling between Boyd and the wall, fisting his cock with the spend he had scooped up. He reached over to cup his other hand around Boyd’s thigh, tugging it gently over, and asked, “Let me - ”

“Yes,” Boyd said, before he could finish. “Yeah, whatever you want.”

He was flushed to the roots of his hair, embarrassed by his eagerness, but couldn’t bring himself to regret the enthusiasm when Don’s eyes flashed dark and hot with pleasure. 

“Put your legs together,” he instructed, and Boyd did as he was told. “Good,” Don said, hooking his elbow under Boyd’s knees. “That’s good.”

Boyd’s cock twitched valiantly. He was awhile off from getting hard again, but damned if Don spilling praise in that gravel-rough register wasn’t temptation enough to try.

“Keep ‘em there,” Don said. “Just like that.” 

Boyd cottoned to the plan as Don shuffled into position, slotting his dick between Boyd’s thighs and rutting shallowly. Boyd squeezed his legs together and was rewarded for his efforts when it wrenched a groan out of Don that sounded almost painful.

“Fuck, Bible,” Don sighed, dropping his head down nuzzle for a second at Boyd’s knee. He was hard and thick and velvet-soft, prick gliding easily between the makeshift lubricant and his own precome.

“Yeah, Don,” Boyd said, rocking his hips as best as he could to match the rhythm Don was setting. “Feels good.”

“So fucking good,” Don agreed, heaving short, heavy breaths with every roll of his hips. “Bet it’s even better, fucking you for real.” 

Boyd couldn’t quite catch the punched-out little whine that knocked through his teeth at that. He took a shivering breath.

“You’n find out, if you want,” he ventured, licking the salt from his dry lips. “Next time.”

The grin that carved its way up into Don’s cheeks was positively scandalous, as was the ragged huff of delighted laughter that accompanied it. He opened his mouth like he planned to say something in response, but the next thrust of his hips had him dropping his head and sighing out a moan instead. He murmured Boyd’s name—his real name, not the mildly heretical sobriquet that Don usually employed—and seemed almost surprised to find himself coming in hot, sticky waves against Boyd’s skin with the next few rolls of his hips.

Don was quiet for a long time after, collapsed back onto his heels with Boyd’s knees still hooked over his elbow, though he wasn’t holding them up any longer so much as letting them rest there. Boyd reached down to brush the tips of his fingers over the curve of Don’s knee and Don jumped.

“Alright?” Boyd asked, when Don lifted his gaze high enough to catch Boyd’s eye.

“Yeah,” Don said, nodding absently. There was still something of a daze about him, though he seemed to settle back into himself with the reminder that he wasn’t alone. “Yeah, I’m good.” He stroked his thumb over Boyd’s knee and asked, “What about you? Good?”

Boyd nodded, his sweat-soaked hair shushing against the pillow under his head, and closed his eyes. “Real good,” he sighed, cracking a grin when Don laughed at the foot of the bed. “Might could use a towel, though.”

Don swatted gently at Boyd’s thigh but gamely pushed to his feet. He rustled around for a moment and then something soft flopped onto Boyd’s belly. He opened his eyes and peered down his chest at the familiar, crumpled olive cotton.

“This is my shirt,” he observed, arching an eyebrow at Don.

“Closest thing we got,” Don shrugged. He sauntered back over to the bed and waved a hand in the air. “Budge up.”

“Two of us ain’t gonna fit,” Boyd warned, wrinkling his nose as he mopped at the mess on his belly, between his thighs. Damn, Don had really worked him over but good.

“We’ll manage.”

Boyd dabbed at himself another couple of times and then gave it up as a bad job, huffing a sigh and lobbing the soiled undershirt over the side of the mattress. He rolled onto his side and shuffled back until his ass hit the wall and Don slotted neatly in alongside him so they were nearly nose-to-nose.

“Not so bad,” Don said. Boyd didn’t roll his eyes but it was a near thing.

“Not so good, either,” he countered. Don sighed and tilted his gaze heavenward.

“C’mere, then,” he groused, rolling onto his back and shoving an arm under Boyd’s shoulder. Boyd moved to accommodate the unexpected intrusion, the two of them grumbling and shifting until Don was sprawled out with Boyd draped halfway over him like a blanket.

This, too, was unusual. Most of the men Boyd had succumbed to in the past were quick about their clean-up and out the door before he could catch his breath. It was surprisingly nice, lying here tucked up against Don’s broad shoulder, with his fingers trailing absent, affectionate patterns along the plane of Boyd’s back.

“You said next time,” Don announced, after a warm, drowsy silence had settled quite comfortably over the little room. Boyd hummed and swam his way up from the cusp of sleep just enough to nod, stubble scraping over Don’s skin.

“I did,” he agreed muzzily.

“You mean it?”

Don sounded almost hesitant, which struck Boyd as strange even through the clinging haze of imminent slumber clouding his mind. He sighed against Don’s chest and tightened the arm he had looped over Don’s waist.

“S’pose I did,” he said. “That alright?”

“Fine by me,” Don assured quickly. He dragged his fingers up the back of Boyd’s neck, into his hair, and back down again. “Didn’t figure you to be so blasé about it, is all.”

“There is a time for everything,” Boyd quoted lazily, “and a season for every activity under the heavens. A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”

“A time to fuck,” Don said, amusement brightening his tone. Boyd snorted.

“Looks like.”

“Funny you should mention dancing,” Don continued. Boyd made a discontented noise in the back of his throat and shook his head.

“Told you, top,” he murmured. “I don’t dance.”

“Lucky for me,” Don agreed. “If you’re half as good on your feet as you are on your back, I don’t know that I’d survive the experience.”

“Shut up,” Boyd grumbled. He was vaguely aware that he ought to be embarrassed but he was altogether too near dropping off to care much.

“What about a goodnight kiss, then?” Don teased. “Surely I must deserve one of those, at the very least.”

“Kiss me in the morning,” Boyd mumbled. Don tucked a laugh into his hair, and the last thing Boyd heard as he finally slipped off was the murmured promise that he would.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm in Boyd Swan hell, so feel free to come scream at me about it [on Dreamwidth](https://thrillingdetectivetales.dreamwidth.org) or [Tumblr.](https://thrillingdetectivetales.tumblr.com)


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